


Experimental Touches

by mrsrockatansky



Series: The Flower of Ferelden [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Sexual Experimentation, Sexual Inexperience, Tent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 16:08:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11489916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsrockatansky/pseuds/mrsrockatansky
Summary: A side-work to the Lion and the Light, set after Florence Cousland and Alistair have made (fumbling and not-wholly-satisfying) love for the first time. During the journey to the Brecilian Forest, Alistair learns how to pleasure his best friend and new lover.





	Experimental Touches

It was a typically drizzly Ferelden evening when a bedraggled party of Wardens and companions finally made camp at the edge of a marshy field. A thin scattering of trees provided scant protection as they assembled the tents in the boggy ground; it was too damp to even attempt to light a fire, and so they ate cold rations hunched beneath the slender branches.

 

Zevran had complained nonstop, bemoaning the detestable Fereldan climate until Alistair had suggested snippily that the elf return to Antiva, since he clearly missed it so greatly. Zevran immediately retorted with an equally snide comment about Ferelden smelling permanently of mildew and wet dog; and the two had continued to bicker all evening.

 

Wynne, who could not tolerate whining and did not particularly enjoy the rain, soon declared that she was going to retire to her tent. With a disapproving snort she proceeded to do just that; soon, those remaining beneath the trees saw her staff ignite with a heatless flame behind the damp canvas, illuminating the senior enchanter as she took out her journal.

 

The Qunari, who had even less patience than the mage, did not linger to hear elf and bastard prince bickering. Without bothering to provide any form of explanation, he shouldered his blade and strode off between the trees; issuing a grunt of exasperation.

 

“Perhaps the Qunari has decided to return to Par Vollen,” suggested Zevran, pressing himself as far back against the tree trunk as possible to take maximum advantage of its shelter. “I imagine that the weather there can’t be much worse than it is here.”

 

Flora, meanwhile, did not mind the rain in the slightest. As a native northerner, a general state of sogginess was the standard; and she was grateful for any climatic condition that reminded her of Herring, and home. She stood placidly in the rain, ignoring the gradual saturation of her – well, _Alistair’s,_ technically – shirt, and eating a slice of chicken wedged into a bread roll.

 

_“Carina,_ surely, will agree with me,” declared Zevran at last, dark eyes sliding across to where Flora was standing in the drizzle. “Wouldn't you prefer it if it were balmy and dry all the time? In Antiva City, it rains so seldom that we barely have a _word_ to describe it.”

 

Flora did not know what _balmy_ meant – it was not a word that featured in her relatively inexperienced vocabulary – but assumed that it meant warm. She gave a little shrug, swallowing the last of her bread roll and washing it down with a gulp of stale water.

 

“The rain makes Ferelden green and beautiful,” she replied, loyal to her country. “And if it were sunny all the time, I would always be burnt. I’m too pale for heat.”

 

Alistair felt a flicker of pride in his fellow-warden as she spoke up in Ferelden’s defence; the annoyance in his hazel eyes softening into affection as he gazed at her. Flora seemed entirely unbothered by the rain, standing in the drizzle with her boots sunk an inch into the mud, damp tendrils of hair plastered to her fine-boned Cousland cheeks. The thin linen shirt was becoming similarly soggy, a hint of pink flesh tantalisingly visible where the material stuck to the skin.

 

Alistair decided that he liked it a great deal when Flora wore his clothing – seeing his slight lover dwarfed by his six-foot frame shirts prompted an odd mixture of pride and desire. Several days earlier at Ostagar, they had made love for the first time – although Alistair was unsure whether such a romantic term could be used to describe the brief, clumsy rutting they had embarked upon. After coupling once more the next morning, they had not had the chance to since practice their lovemaking in a less hostile environment. Aside from some awkward fondling in the saddle, they had barely touched one another since their departure from the doomed fortress. Their shared sleeping accommodation with the elf prevented further intimacy, despite Zevran’s assurances that he would not mind _in the slightest_ if they wished to couple on the next sleeping mat.

 

Now, Alistair watched Flora lick crumbs off her fingers before wiping the surreptitiously on the hem of her – _his_ – shirt; and felt the distinctive _pull_ of lust deep in his belly. Flora herself seemed oblivious, absentmindedly wringing out the damp end of her braid as she extracted each boot from the mud.

 

“I might… do a quick check of the perimeter before bed,” murmured Zevran kindly, who could detect lust as soundly as a Mabari scent-hound on the trail of a deer. “Don't wait up, my sweet Wardens. Enjoy a little _privacy_ on me.”

 

The elf was feeling a tad remorseful for baiting Alistair over the Fereldan climate. He had also turned around in the saddle earlier that day and seen Alistair’s hand between the buttons of Flora’s shirt, fingers working busily while she flushed and bit her lip; and knew that both Wardens yearned to be intimate once again.

 

Alistair’s face lit up with boyish surprise and delight as Zevran made the suggestion, his green-flecked eyes widening a fraction.

 

_“Really?”_

_“Sí,_ ” confirmed Zevran, the corner of his mouth twisting upwards. “I ask only a kiss from your lovely lady-warden as payment. On the cheek.”

 

Flora, who equally desired to be alone with Alistair, was more than happy to comply. She dutifully waded her way through the mud towards the elf, lifting her face the few inches towards his. As she pressed her lips to Zevran’s cheek, his deft fingers dropped to give her rump a little teasing pat.

 

_“Enjoy_ one another _,”_ he murmured wickedly in her ear, pulling away. “I'll make a _slow_ patrol.”

 

As the elf sauntered as best he could across the marshy ground, Alistair held out his hand to his best friend. Flora took it, their damp fingers curling together in the ritual that somehow seemed _more_ intimate now that he had been inside her.

 

Hand in hand, they ducked inside the small canvas tent; barely paying heed to the mildewed walls or the tangled pile of belongings in one corner. It was hardly the most romantic of settings, yet neither Warden could have cared less about their surroundings. A sliver of moonlight penetrated through a worn-through patch in the canvas, providing them with just enough light to remove their boots.

 

The moment that muddied footwear had been removed, both Wardens sunk into each other's arms with mutual desire. Their mouths moved together with a soft, wet rhythm; lips parting and pressing with increasing _want._ Tongues thrust together, accompanied by soft pants; she suckled at his lower lip and he gave hers a little bite in return.

 

From her position sitting on his lap, Flora could feel him already erect, straining against his breeches. She shifted her pelvis slightly to straddle the centre of his hardness; wanting to sate the pressure between her own heated legs.

 

Alistair let out a soft groan of desire, drawing her tongue fully into his mouth before releasing it. She panted, breathless; he gave her a moment to regain some air before pulling her back into his arms.

 

This time it was she who deepened the kiss, parting her mouth wide against his. The noise of their lips feasting wet and hungry on each other was loud enough to be heard over the drizzle; the sound of her suckling wantonly on his tongue bordered on obscene. She whimpered around it, her mouth trembling against the slick muscle.

 

Feeling his pulsing cock give several warning spasms, Alistair pulled back reluctantly; the sight of his companion’s flushed face and wet, slightly parted lips almost enough to drive him beyond the point of no return.

 

“Alright,” he croaked, easing Flora gently off his lap and onto the damp bedroll. “Let's just… hang on for a moment, or this is going to be over far too quickly. Maker’s Breath, what you _do_ to me-! ”

 

Flora sat back on her rear, breathing hard and with her hair half-hanging free from its band. Despite the chill spring evening, she felt hot and fidgety; wanting to press her palm between her legs to relieve some of the thrumming tension there.

 

Alistair took several calming gulps of cool air, willing himself to calm down. Although he knew there was no chance of easing the pressure of his erection – not when his best friend’s damp shirt was clinging so revealingly to her body – he wanted to bring himself away from the brink.

 

An owl hooted softly from somewhere outside; an unwelcome reminder that their privacy was only an illusion, and that there was only so much drizzle that Zevran would be willing to tolerate.

 

Not wanting to waste any more time, Alistair smiled at Flora, who had lifted her palms to cup her flushed cheeks.

 

“Show me those pretty little breasts,” he ordered, throatily. “I want to see them.”

 

Flora, feeling a firm knot of pleasure tug between her legs at the instruction, duly reached up to unbutton the damp shirt. As each button came undone, the white linen draped open to reveal high, creamy breasts, small enough to require no supporting bodice.

 

Alistair let out a strangulated groan, his eyes rooted on the pale mounds. Reaching out as though in a dream, he cupped them in his hands; then stroked his thumbs beneath their gentle curves. They were firm to the touch, the flesh tantalisingly ripe beneath his exploratory caresses.

 

“These are so beautiful,” he said, wonderingly. “Look at how they fit in my hands.”

 

“They’re not as big as Leliana’s,” muttered Flora, correctly. “I don't know how she fits into her armour.”

 

A flush rose reflexively to Alistair’s cheeks, for he had of course seen their Chantry sister unclothed during their escapades in the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Being only human Alistair had spilt his seed on several occasions while fantasising about the nude Leliana; during those early months when he was trying desperately to keep Flora fixed in his mind as merely a friend.

 

“They're _perfect,”_ Alistair insisted, lust coating each word like freshly applied plaster as he squeezed both of his best friend’s breasts gently in turn. “I love how pink these are.”

 

_These_ were her nipples, which were indeed swollen and sensitive beneath his caressing thumbs. Flora inhaled unsteadily as he brushed his sword-roughened palms across the tips, coaxing them to prick up even harder in the night air.

 

Unable to help himself, Alistair leaned forward curiously and touched his tongue to the end of one stiff little nipple. Hearing the ensuing whimper, he began to suck gently at the rosy peak while fondling the other between calloused finger and thumb.

 

He was rewarded for his efforts by Flora’s half-strangled moans; her mouth parted in an _O_ of arousal as she squirmed beneath his caresses. Delighted at her reaction – and that _he_ was the source of her pleasure – Alistair feathered both breasts with light, butterfly kisses before returning his attention to the stiff pink tip. After lapping at it for several minutes, he moved his mouth to her other breast; wondering at how it yielded to his tongue.

 

Leaving both nipples wet with saliva and tender from over stimulation, Alistair planted a last sucking kiss on the soft underside of her breast. His cock gave a twitch of arousal as he saw the resultant pink mark blossom on the pale skin.

 

“Alright,” he murmured, eyes dropping purposefully to Flora’s waist. “Take off your breeches: I want to touch you.”

 

Flora went pink but reached down to her trousers, leaning back on the bedroll as she raised her her hips to slide both trousers and smalls down her thighs. Alistair felt a thrill of strange, unfamiliar excitement at seeing her so receptive, so _willing_ to do as he asked. In their normal circumstances, she was the unquestioned leader to whom everyone else looked to for instruction; yet here, she seemed to delight in relinquishing control.

 

Alistair gazed down at his best friend as she lay naked before him, the soft, creamy tone of her skin mottled with a flush of arousal. He palmed himself for a moment through his own breeches, then cleared the lust from his throat enough to speak.

 

“Show me.”

 

The same flare of excitement ignited in his belly once again at her readiness to obey. Then his entire attention was captured by his companion as she parted her thighs, a blush rising to her cheeks.

 

It was the first time that Alistair had seen a girl up close, and his first thought was how strangely beautiful it was, all plump, flushed folds and glistening sheen. At last he understood why Zevran described it as a _flower_ ; could see each petal nestled tightly together, slick with morning moisture. There was a little bud secreted at the top, flushed and swollen, and Alistair realised that this was what the other Grey Wardens had referred to as the _pearl of pleasure._ Alistair had never been able to contribute to these campfire tales of conquest; now, he was finally able to understand their sly comments.

 

Alistair reached down with a trembling thumb and scored a line between her folds, inhaling as they parted with a wet, fleshy sound. Flora went pink at the noise – which bordered on obscene – and sneaked a glimpse up at her best friend’s face. His handsome features were suffused with a mixture of fascination and desire, the tip of his tongue just visible between his parted lips.

 

“You didn't sound like this at Ostagar,” he managed to croak at last, his voice threaded with want.

 

At Ostagar, their coupling had been fuelled by grief, by the desire to purge the memory of dead Cailan on his crucifix from their minds. There had been no soft caresses precluding their rut; he had kissed her for barely a second before fumbling at his breeches. With tears in his eyes, he had spat on his palm and slicked his cock; equally inexperienced, she had guided him between her legs using her healer’s knowledge of anatomy. It had taken him several minutes to work himself fully inside; and then he had fucked into her dry, letting out guttural grunts like a beast in heat.

 

Now, confronted with the slickness of his fellow Warden’s stimulated folds, Alistair felt ashamed at his own haste. He traced each velvet lip with his thumb, wondering at the sucking wetness that tried to draw him in.

 

“You're beautiful, Flo,” he whispered after a moment, squeezing the folds together between thumb and forefinger. “Do you like this?”

 

Flora let out a little squeak of assent, too shy to watch his glistening fingers as he lifted them to the moonlight. Curiously, Alistair licked the taste of her from his fingers, eyes widening at the sweetness.

 

“Maker’s Breath,” he croaked, absolutely enthralled. “You taste so good, my love.”

 

Embarrassed, Flora picked up a nearby cushion and hid her face with it. Alistair, stifling a chuckle, gently drew it away again. Leaning forward, he pressed his mouth tenderly against hers, deliberately teasing open her lips with his tongue so that she could taste herself on him.

 

When he withdrew, she was bleary eyed and desperate; wanting to be properly touched rather than _teased._ Alistair obligingly dropped his thumb back between her thighs, rubbing a gentle circle over the hard nub of flesh nestled at the top of her folds.

 

Flora let out a throaty whimper of pleasure that was utterly unlike any other noise that had escaped her lips previously. It startled her; and she blinked in surprise, astonished that such a wanton noise had emerged from _her_ throat – she had always been a good girl, and good girls didn't moan like paid whores, _did they?_

Alistair had almost spilt his seed in his breeches on hearing his lover’s cry. His constrained cock was now throbbing with a desperate, rhythmic pulse; wanting nothing more than to sheathe itself between those swollen, slicked folds.

 

Yet he managed to restrain himself; for he had heard stories that a woman’s pleasure was more complex and multi-layered than a man’s; and Alistair wanted nothing more than to learn how to please her; to watch her body shudder as he stimulated her to climax.

 

“Lo?” he whispered, running his thumb in delicate circles over the taut, wet bead of flesh.

 

Flora, sweat prickling between her bared breasts, managed to croak out some semblance of a reply.

 

Alistair let his thumb tap gently against his best friend’s exposed pearl, watching even more slickness rise between her ripely pink folds.

 

“Have you ever –“ here, he swallowed, with residual shyness. “Have you ever touched yourself? For pleasure, I mean.”

 

Flora shook her head slightly; she had never slept in any quarters on her own, and had thus never enjoyed the benefits of privacy.

 

Alistair swallowed, he had been hoping that she would be able to show him some moves, as it were. Propping himself up on an elbow beside his best; he cupped her between the legs and gave her an experimental rub with his palm.

 

“Right,” he murmured, determination now mingling with the lust on his handsome features. “This is going to be a case of trial and error. Let me know what feels good, my dear.”

 

Over the next twenty minutes, the methodological Alistair gradually learnt how best to stimulate his shy companion; what made her whimper like a plaintive Mabari, what made her moan and buck against his hand, and what made her erupt into a fit of the giggles. He learnt that she liked it when he tugged gently at the hard knot nestled within her folds, that teasing flicks of his finger made her pant in helpless arousal. She liked it when he slid his two thickest fingers inside, pumping slowly while his thumb made leisurely rotations around the sensitive little bundle of nerves.

 

Alistair himself had spilt his seed inside his smalls partway through. She moaned his name as he first slid a tentative finger inside her; and his cock had responded over-enthusiastically to her wanton exultation.

 

Now he was determined to bring his best friend to climax, his eyes moving from Flora’s flushed face to where his fingers were working between her legs. In the past few minutes, she had grown increasingly fidgety; squirming beneath his ministrations as her cheeks grew pinker.

 

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” Alistair whispered, while simultaneously giving her slick pearl another tweak.

 

Flora nodded frantically, arching her back against the bedroll as she let out a strangled gasp.

 

“Feels- feels like I'm- _oh- ”_

Trying and failing to articulate what her rapidly approaching climax felt like, she whimpered, bucking herself urgently against the pressure.

 

“I – _I- ”_

 

Alistair increased the pace of his fingers, until the sound of obscenely wet circular stroking filled the tent.

 

“Come for me, Lo, just relax and let it happen- ” he whispered, letting his little finger nudge into the cleft of her rear.

 

Flora bucked her hips upwards in a series of sudden, trembling thrusts; a cry of startled pleasure tearing from her throat. Alistair could see the orgasm travelling through her body in waves, the muscles of her abdomen clenching and the blood rushing to swell her overstimulated nipples. A moment later, he felt a new slippery wetness on his fingers and it took a moment for him to work out what it was.

 

Inordinately proud of himself, Alistair was unable to stop a grin from spreading over his face as he gazed down at his fellow Warden, who had gone slightly cross-eyed from dazed pleasure.

 

Flora, thinking that he was laughing at her, immediately went from pink to red, and looked around for something to hide her face in.

 

“I love you,” Alistair said impulsively, leaning forward and intercepting her hand before she could retrieve a cushion. “Maker’s Bride, Flo, that was _amazing._ You looked so beautiful, you took my breath away.”

 

Flora eyed him, slightly dubious. She did not _feel_ beautiful, she felt hot and sweaty and a little embarrassed. Then Alistair grinned at her, and the boyish delight was writ so radiant across his handsome, deceptively arrogant features that she couldn't help but smile back at him.

 

“I love you too.”

 

Alistair sat up, absentmindedly rotating his over-exerted wrist.

 

“The next time we lie together,” he started, the green flecks in his eyes standing out stark in the moonlight. “I'm going to do some of _that_ as well. I want you to enjoy it as much as I do, Flo.”

 

Flora smiled at him, sitting up and hooking her arm around her companion’s neck to plaster a sleepy kiss against his stubbled cheek.

 

“That sounds g- ” she began, then was interrupted by the elf sliding into the tent through the loose canvas flap, letting out a little huff of displeasure at the dampness of his leathers.

 

“I cannot cope a moment longer with this horrendous Fereldan weather,” Zevran announced, in a voice infused with Antivan melodrama. “I gave you as long as I could stand, _amores._ I feel as though I need someone to wring me out.”

 

“Um,” said Flora, blinking in surprise.

 

Alistair was quicker to respond, looking around for a stray blanket to toss towards his lover.

 

“Elf, Flora is – well. She's _not wearing any clothes.”_

Zevran let out a little snort, waving his fingers at their – admittedly, completely naked - resident healer. Flora, a veteran of communal dormitories, returned the wave with an entirely unbothered beam.

 

“I don't think she minds, particularly. Aah, these leathers were supposed to be _waterproof._ Clearly, they were no match for the Fereldan rain.”

 

The elf navigated around the cramped tangle of people, packs and bedrolls – the tents were reasonably sized, but not really  designed to house three – and unbuttoned the outer layer of his tunic with deft, clever fingers.

 

“Well, I suppose it was worth it to give you two a little _privacy,”_ Zevran said eventually, shooting a pointed leer towards Flora. “Enjoy yourself, _mi sirenita?”_

Flora, who had been halfway through pulling Alistair’s shirt over her head, let out a half-appalled, half-amused snort. As her face emerged through the damp linen neck-hole, the elf gave a soft cackle of amusement, his dark eyes glinting in the evening shadow.

 

“Well, it certainly _sounded_ as though you did, my blossoming flower.”

 

Alistair, who had been attempting to mend a hole in the canvas ceiling by knotting together two threads, promptly almost fell over. As he lurched into the tent pole, Flora made a frantic grab for it; not wanting their sleeping accommodation to collapse into their heads.

 

“You were _listening?!”_ bastard prince demanded of elf, his green-flecked irises widening indignantly. “To our… _intimate moment?”_

Zevran settled back on the bedroll, tucking his arms behind his head and flashing very white teeth in a toothy grin.

 

“No privacy on a campsite, _amores.”_


End file.
